Confetti Girl (7 page)

“Did I tell you?” Dad says to Mom. “Lina won her volleyball game last week.
M’ija
was the best player on the team.”

“He’s biased,” I say. “Don’t believe him.”

“You’d be real proud of our daughter,
mi amor.
She’s a smart one, too.”

“Especially in science,” I brag.

Dad has a few more things to say to Mom. I can tell he wants to be alone, so I go for a walk.

Some of the tombstones have pictures of the dead, but I don’t need a picture to remember every detail about my mom. She loved
jangling bracelets and sleeveless tops because she had beautiful arms. Most ladies have a lot of flab above the elbows. But
not Mom. She had small cups of muscle on her shoulders and firm biceps because she exercised with her five-pound dumbbells
every morning. She used to flex her muscles in the mirror when she thought she was alone. Sometimes I called her Xena from
the TV show.

One thing Mom and Dad shared were
dichos,
but they were very different about
when
they gave me their words of wisdom.

Dad’s, I admit, always made sense. They flowed from the conversation. I might ask a nosy question, and Dad would say, “
No preguntes lo que no te importa
,” which means “Mind your own business.” Most of the time, his
dichos
were the result of something I did, usually something naughty. He might find out I lied, for example, and say, “
Las mentiras no tienen pies
,” or, “Lies don’t have feet so they can’t travel on their own.”

But the reasons behind my mom’s
dichos
were always a mystery to me. She’d say them at the weirdest times, and they startled me because they were always unexpected,
like the cuckoo of a clock that’s ten minutes ahead.

One day, Mom and I sat on the back porch eating ice cream and she said, “
El camarón que se duerme se lo lleva la corriente
,” which means, “The shrimp that goes to sleep gets carried away by the current.”

“Mom, how did your mind go from chocolate ice cream to shrimp?”

She laughed. “That sure does sound like a gross combination,” she agreed.

One day she was double-checking the expiration date on the milk carton and said, “You know, Lina,
lo mismo el chile que aguja, a todos pican igual.
Both the chile and the needle sting.”

“Why did you say that?” I asked. “Are you thinking about mixing chiles with milk?”

“No. That would definitely give me a stomachache.”

Another time we went to Payless inside the air-conditioned mall, with no way of knowing the weather, and for some bizarre
reason, Mom said, “
Después de la lluvia sale el sol
.” After the rain, the sun shines.

“Mom,” I said. “We left the car in the parking garage, so even if it
does
rain, we won’t get wet. I don’t get it. Why are you always saying
dichos
when they don’t matter?”

“They don’t matter
now
,” she explained. “But you never know when you’ll need a good
dicho.
I want to make sure you have a whole bunch of them in your brain account.”

“What’s a brain account?”

“It’s like a bank account, but instead of dollars, you save
dichos.
”

I couldn’t help laughing when I heard this, and even today, as I walk among the tombstones, Mom’s silly way of teaching
dichos
still makes me smile. It feels good to think about her without feeling sad.

Every now and then, I glance in my dad’s direction, waiting for him to signal that he’s ready to leave. As I walk past the
tombstones, I read the names and dates on them and invent histories for all the strangers, especially those who lived long,
long lives. What would they be saying if I could hear them? Did they have daughters and do their daughters still visit?

Finally, my dad waves me over. He hasn’t cried the entire day, but I can tell that his emotions are as fragile as eggshells
because as soon as we get home, he rushes to his room and closes the door. The next morning, I find several wadded tissues
in the trash, and I feel sad—not because of my mom, but because my dad didn’t let me comfort him the way he comforted me at
Snoopy’s. When he hides this way, I feel like a burden and then I feel invisible. And I have to wonder, what’s the right
dicho
for that?

No tengas como vano el consejo del anciano –
Don’t ignore advice from someone with experience

T
he following Monday, Vanessa peers down from the top bunk in my bedroom. “What’s taking you so long?” she says. “We’re going
to be late for school.”

I shrug as I search through my drawer. I know it’s weird, but I’m thinking my love-life destiny is linked to socks.

“Is this about Luís?” Vanessa asks, reading my mind. Sometimes telepathy with your best friend is not cool. “Are you using
your socks as love bait?”

“Maybe,” I say.

“You’re so corny!” She nearly rolls off the bed when she laughs.

“Quit teasing. It’s not as corny as matching costumes.”

“Okay, okay, we’re even,” she says, hopping off the bunk. “Move aside. I’ll be your fashion consultant.”

We decide on white knee-highs with pastel flowers embroidered up the leg. A very dainty design.

“I don’t know why I try so hard,” I say. “There’s not much I can do about my looks.”

“Quit acting silly. You look adorable.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You make zits look like accessories.”

“What you need is a skirt,” she suggests.

“No way. I’m too skinny.”

“No you’re not. You’re just like my mom. Always hiding your figure.”

“
What
figure? You’ve seen my legs. My kneecaps are wider than my thighs!”

She shakes her head as if I’m crazy.

By the time I get to science, my stomach is in a nervous knot. Luís and I had a great time at the carnival, but he hasn’t
exactly confessed true love. Does he like me or not? I wonder. When he comes in, he does his routine—sits in front of me,
waves hello, looks at his sundial, and turns to the front.

Surely not the behavior of a boy in love.

Mr. Star starts class with a reminder about our semester projects, which are due right after the winter break. Then he pops
in a National Geographic video about coral reefs and turns off the lights.

“Psst.” It’s Luís slipping me a note.

I try to read it, but it’s too dark. I have to tilt it to the TV light. Little by little, I make out the words.
Can I walk with you after school?
it says.

Is this the sign of true love I’ve been waiting for?
Yes,
I write.
Meet me by the tennis court parking lot.
Then I hand Luís the note.

He reads it and whispers, “Okay.”

The movie rolls on and just when I start paying attention, I remember that Ms. Cantu is picking me up after school. We’re
supposed to go to the grocery store, but I’d rather hang out with Luís. So I turn around to tell Vanessa, but she’s in the
back row with Carlos. They’re not watching the movie. They’re whispering to each other. After class, Carlos hangs around till
the fourth-period bell rings, which means no privacy for Vanessa and me.

What do I do? I want to walk with Luís, but if I’m a no-show for Ms. Cantu, she’ll call the Coast Guard.

With all this stress, I can’t focus in English. To make matters worse, I haven’t studied for the vocabulary test. Mrs. Huerta
wants us to define words and use them in sentences. She calls the first task “recall” and the second, “application.”

For once, I decide to take my dad’s advice. He says I can figure out words by taking them apart, so I try it. The first word
is
marsupial.
Okay, I tell myself,
mar
in Spanish means “sea,” so a marsupial must be… seawater soup. FOR DINNER, THE FISHERMEN DIPPED THEIR POTS INTO THE OCEAN
AND MADE MARSUPIAL. Number two,
trifle
has the prefix
tri,
which means “three,” so trifle has to mean “full of threes.” MY STUDENT IDENTIFICATION NUMBER IS TRIFLE. The next word is
felicity.
Now that’s a hard one, but I notice that it begins with the same four letters as “feline.” Hmmm… F-E-L-I must be the prefix
for cats, so felicity must be… a city for cats. AFTER MAKING CARTOONS, GARFIELD WENT TO LIVE IN A FELICITY. Not bad, I think
to myself. Before I know it, the test is done.

After school, I linger in the hallway hoping to catch Luís or Vanessa, but they aren’t around. And no wonder! They’re already
at the parking lot by the tennis courts. Ms. Cantu is there too. What a major bust! If only I could turn back.

“Do you know this young man?” Ms. Cantu says. Before I can answer, she adds, “because he says you told him to meet you here,
so he can walk you home.” This third degree makes me feel like walking home’s illegal.

Vanessa says, “Leave Lina alone, Mom. She can do what she wants. It’s not like you’re her parent.”

“I kind of am. Did you know,” she says to Luís, “that Lina is an orphan child? She lost her mother last year,
la pobrecita.
”

“I, I know,” Luís says.

“That makes her a delicate flower in my book. And delicate flowers have no business hanging out with weeds.”

“Oh my
gosh,
Mom,” Vanessa says. “Just because Dad…”

“Don’t ‘oh my gosh’ me, young lady.”

“Luís is not a weed,” I say. “He asked if he could walk with me, and I said yes. I’ll be home in fifteen minutes, Ms. Cantu.
I promise.”

“But I thought you wanted to go to the grocery store,” she answers.

“I can go another time,” I say.

We stand like cars in a traffic jam—each of us stuck and in our own little worlds.

“Well,” Ms. Cantu finally says. “I wouldn’t be responsible if I didn’t get your father’s permission first.”

“Just let it go,” Vanessa says. “She’s not your responsibility.”

“No she’s not,” Ms. Cantu says. “If she were, we’d be at the grocery store right now. Because no daughter of mine is hanging
out with boys until she graduates from college.”

Vanessa lets out this strange noise. It’s loud and not loud at the same time—something part scream, part grunt. Then she stomps
to the truck, slams shut the door, and sits in the seat with her arms crossed. She’s angrier than I am. In fact, I’m not angry
at all. I’m feeling a strange mix of embarrassment and appre ciation.

“Hello,” Ms. Cantu says into her cell phone. “Hom ero?” I hear my father’s faint voice. “I’m just calling because Lina wants
to walk home with some boy.” My dad says something. “From school.” He says something else. “Are you sure? Because I can take
her home if you want. I’m already here.” Another pause. “Well, if it’s okay with you, but just so you know, this young man’s
Hispanic, five feet four inches, brown hair, brown eyes, and about a hundred and twenty-five pounds.”

She says goodbye to my dad, snaps shut her phone, and says, “Remember, Lina, if you’re not home in fifteen minutes, your dad’s
calling missing persons.”

Finally, Ms. Cantu gets in her car and backs out. I wave goodbye to Vanessa, but instead of waving back, she turns away. Why
is she so mad? What did I do?

When we’re finally alone, I tell Luís that I live on Casa de Oro. He nods. Casa de Oro is only two streets away from our school.

“I’m sorry Vanessa’s mom was so rude. I can’t believe she gave my dad a police description of you.”

“I don’t think she’s rude. She’s, she’s, she’s funny.”

“She
is
funny,” I say.

He nods and makes the
loco
sign with his finger.

“She’s a lunatic. I’m a delicate flower. And you’re a weed.”

He smiles. “A five-foot, f-f-four-inch-tall weed.”

We giggle and then we outright laugh. The whole thing seems so ridiculous.

A few hours later, I go across the street. Ms. Cantu hardly looks up when I walk in. She’s a one-woman factory cutting circles
of tissue paper for dozens of
cascarones.

“Is everything okay?” I say to Vanessa as I follow her to the bedroom and take my seat on the beanbag. “You were acting a
little weird this afternoon.”

“Can you blame me? My mom’s so strict. She’d
never
let a boy walk me home. She’s such a man-hater.”

“We need to change her opinion somehow.”

“I know, but how?” Vanessa looks at the ceiling and touches her chin to brainstorm. “I got it!” she says. “Let’s get on the
net.”

We move to her laptop, and I stand behind her while she googles “The Corpus Connection.”

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I saw this dating service advertised on TV.”

“You’re going to sign up your mom?”

“No,” Vanessa says, “but I want to know who’s out there. Maybe we can make up a secret admirer for her. That way, she’ll be
distracted, and she won’t complain about my dad all the time. She might even stop making
cascarones
and let me hang out with guys.”

The Corpus Connection Web page appears on the screen.
SEE PROFILES
, it says.

We scroll down the page.

“Look at all these dorky guys,” Vanessa says. “This one sent a corny poem about his dog. ‘My pet dog Peaches, sticks to me
like leeches.’”

“That’s gross,” I say.

“And this guy’s in training for the national cup-stacking competition.”

“Is that when they get plastic cups and make pyramids real fast?”

“Yeah,” Vanessa says. “And he’s hyped. He thinks cup stacking is a serious sport. He thinks it should be in the Olympics.”

“That
is
kind of weird.”

“Hey, look,” she says. “This one’s looking for a señorita.”

We read his ad:
Hello, señorita. I would-o like-o to meet-o you.

“What a nerd,” I say. “He thinks you can speak Spanish by adding an
o
to everything.”

Vanessa closes the website. “I’m starting to think the Corpus Connection was a bad idea.”

She pushes aside the laptop, plants her elbows on the desk, and drops her head into her arms. I wish I had the right words
to cheer her up, but I don’t.